


That's Life... Mostly

by CampionSayn



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Tiny!Peter Parker, Wade is a good person to confide in secretly, canonical sexual abuse, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampionSayn/pseuds/CampionSayn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memory as a curse, memory as a blessing, memory as something that builds and strengthens. God, I’m bad with summing things up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Life... Mostly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twilight_Shadow_Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilight_Shadow_Songs/gifts).



-:-  
_In a special four page supplement of the 1985 ‘Chicago Tribune’ comics page, Spiderman revealed that he was sexually abused as a child…_  
_-Nerdy Facts on Tumblr._

* * *

  
i. **Instrument**.

Broken heartbeats are not unlike piano keys that don’t sound properly against the wire and the clock when they reach impact. They exist in the same dimensions and you get the same frustrated or sickened feeling when they ring false.

Two helicopters flew overhead as the body of someone Peter thought he trusted brushed his heavy mass over his own. His friend—at least, he thought he was his friend, even if Peter was only seven and the boy presently clenching his hand over his mouth was about fifteen; they had occasion to play basketball after school and eat popsicles on the same stoop here and there—was almost a hundred pounds and Peter was just around only fifty or sixty soaking wet, so being under him and having his clothes torn off with the gravel cutting his hands and knees didn't feel very pleasant.

“Ah!”

This wasn’t a game, Peter realized, when his clothes were forced off of his own white, partially freckled body and balled up in an attempt for some protection from the dirty ground (butts of cigarettes were so common in back alleys, but you don’t really appreciate that until your nose keeps brushing up against one and just how awful they smell hit the senses). He knew that, but it wasn’t so distressing until he tried to get the clothes back on and he was pushed down with fingers reaching into an orifice (ten-point vocabulary word in school that seemed to make his teacher uncomfortable) of Peter’s that was not his mouth; trying to breathe making the child choke when the fingers moved around for a few minutes and then got replaced with something bigger that didn’t belong there.

“S-Stop… S-s-stop i-it…”

…It stopped after about half an hour, which is a record in some people’s view, given that a teenager with a partner of any kind in a sex act never practiced before was only likely to hold out in minutes of the single-digit variety, but not as soon as Peter meant. And it ended with something sticky on the inside of his thighs, too hot an unpleasant in summer (in the situation) to touch.

The older boy zipped up his pants and helped Peter up. Got him dressed back in his dirty shorts and shirt and the little floppy sandles that hurt between Peter’s big and little toes. Took him home, like nothing happened.

_(Peter couldn’t use the bathroom for three days without blood showing up in the water and he avoided ever talking with the other boy after that. The shorts he wore after the incident Peter would look back on as one of the top ten worst nights of his life—second to Uncle Ben being killed—he took to a garbage can three doors down from his home when he was sure that nobody would wake up and ask about the much darker stains on the inside of them. Nobody noticed them missing and he thanked God two weeks in a row for that.)_

ii. **Ornament**.

There are these little boxes that Peter has that used to be filled with staples before they were put to use that he kept because it was cute and they were also good for holding erasers at work so he wouldn't lose them. When he met Wade—actually, around the time Deadpool started stalking him like a puppy chasing trucks—those little boxes stayed that way, but sometimes got played with by the merc with a mouth; him going on and on about, “Having things like this in your desk is just asking for an infestation of weevils and the Borrowers. These are just the right size for a love-den or a funeral box—why would you want that around?!”

When Wade stopped pestering Peter about them, he thought they would be useful for other things after he’d gone to his old neighborhood on a job to get photos of the recent battle-site between Spiderman and one of the thorns in the side of the Avengers _(honest to God, it would be so nice if Thor and his brother would make up and get over themselves so everyone else didn't have to clear up their family issues; magic burns seriously hurt)_  and run into someone unpleasant from Peter’s pre-pubescent years.

_(He bit the inside of his mouth so he would just turn and walk away instead of running like he would have if he were still seven and too small to do anything else with any sort of dignity or pride. He swallowed the blood when his teeth cut his own skin and had vomited it up along with the Chinese food from lunch when he got back to his apartment. Nevermind that Deadpool had been there and making pancakes at ten o’clock at night in Peter’s floral oven mitts and flannel apron; the psychotic nutcase had the good sense, at least, not to interrupt when Peter puked. But, he had made Peter pause and drink some water when the brunette started dry heaving.)_

Those little boxes were the perfect size for hiding feelings and emotions printed on paper in his atrocious handwriting, not dissimilar to poetry, but not quite pretty enough.

_(I have calluses on all of my fingers from a camera and from my other job /I have dark hair that wouldn't look any different covered in mud /my teeth are pretty straight, except my lower left canine and the one right next to it /I like the smell of red onions when they’re fresh and just cut._

_My hands sometimes tremble when I think too hard about sex /a hint of cigarettes or smoke makes me think of propeller topped aviation /I have nightmares about blood even when I don’t go out on patrol.)_

Honestly, he isn't sure if Deadpool ever finds those boxes, but it doesn't seem as bad a thought as it would with Mary-Jane or Harry or Cap’ and Tony if they were the ones to find them.

iii. **Sing** **Anyway**

Fate, Wade had come to realize after such a long time of doing his thing, had this way of often being an absolute bastard and simultaneously a real smooth operator, so that when you were going to do something relatively important _(say, after finding out that your little spider web bouncy house weaver had been diddled as a little guy by someone who had the gall and actually got away with it for years; grabbing an AK-47 and taking a motorcycle to Pete’s old address to do some hunting)_ Fate was there waiting for you and laughing his ass off with a happy/sick grinning face.

The tiny little box with the wrinkled slip of a paper is safe in one of his ammunition filled pockets as Wade looked through the burnt out shell of a compact car with the charred out remains of the man he was going to see. The guy that had hit the car twenty feet away puking his guts out and sick about how just nudging the car before him on accident had sent it into flames was probably a little freaked out when Deadpool nudged the dead guy’s hands _(still wrapped around the steering wheel tight—how much agony he had been in Wade could guess since such incidents had happened to him on occasion that he’d walked away from, hungry for beefy burritos and those giant sized slushies Wade could swear would be perfect to replace the coffee fad one day)_ and then poked the juicy-slick-grease-hamburger looking head and flicked it between the eyes.

“Let’s see, Bruce Wayne saw his parents murdered and turned into Batman. Luke Skywalker found out Vader was his daddy and lost his hand. You hurt a little kid and bought a Ford Pinto,” Deadpool hummed like the poetry immortal of Cyrano De Bergerac as he stood below the balcony of his wonderful, loving, beautiful distant cousin _(what was it about famous poets wanting to do their cousins? There are a billion other people in the world, stop polluting the gene pool times two)_ speaking for some halfwit with a pretty face.

For the sake of making sure Peter could feel good about this someday that didn't involve the Sunday Times and the obituary section, Wade took out his phone, stepped back until he was in the perfect position and clicked a little instant picture that would eventually make a nice little card once he printed it out and blew it up to the size of a billboard.

“Maybe it’ll read, ‘This is what happens when some asshole takes advantage of little kids’ unless I can think of something better?”

But, oh well, that was for another time. Since he was downtown and he had time to kill until Spidey was done with patrolling with Ironing Manly-Man, he could probably find a moderately better Chinese takeout place and order in bulk for later that night.

“Spidey will be too tired to cook, I’ll bet.”

* * *

  
“It’s nice to be right,” Wade hummed quietly as Peter slid through the apartment window and didn't even pause stride to take a double-look when he found the coffee table filled with hot Chinese food and Wade seated on the couch in nothing but grey sweatpants and a white trash T-shirt, half of the couch untouched and with a video game controller Wade wasn't using looking like it was waiting for a pair of nice hands to adopt it.

Wade crashed his simulated car _(a painted green and tan Ford Pinto; cruel or justified?)_ into a truck with huge wheels and enjoyed the explosion before pressing ‘start’ and heading back to menu to switch to two-player mode, patting Peter’s head like he was a puppy when the younger man collapsed and grabbed the controller as well as some sweet and sour pork doused to the brim in soy sauce and sticky rice.

For someone who could spin webs, Peter was really just awful with chopsticks, so he was grateful when Wade handed him a spork, as well as an ice cold bottle of cola; his smaller frame slouching happy and content into the sofa and Wade’s side as he picked out a simulated pink candy car _(amazingly, this game came with stuff from Disney movies—including but not limited to A Bug’s Life and Wreck-it-Ralph)_ while Deadpool picked the sleigh from a Nightmare Before Christmas.

Peter stuffed two pieces of pork in his mouth, some rice that had stuck to them taking a perch on the edge of his lower lip and said very sincerely, even if it was masked in exhaustion, “Thanks Wade, I would have been a little too out of it if I’d had to cook for myself. I can’t promise I wouldn't have set the place on fire if I’d fallen asleep.”

Wade stuck out his tongue and swiped the stray rice before he replied and started the game properly in the town square of Mulan's story line somewhere in China with lots of dirt streets and little flags waving from the buildings, “I already knew that, but it’s nice to hear to anyway.”

Peter snorted but leaned up over Wade’s giant horse of a shoulder and gave a little mouse kiss to the side of the merc’s cheek, his hair tickling and causing Wade’s chosen game vehicle to swerve as he lost concentration for a second.

**Author's Note:**

> Let it be known that I know precious little about all the stuff in Marvel, but I owe Twilight a double gift for her birthday, for the official anti-homophobia day (which I'm late for, again) and for the kickass fic she gave me a little while ago that still has me swooning like some teenage idiot because MOTHER OF GOD it was so friggin’ AWESOME and I am not worthy.


End file.
